Bath Massacre: America's First School Bombing (36 page)

In the five decades since the bombing, there was no reunion for the class of 1927. Five graduates had passed away; another member now lived in Alaska. Those who remained in Bath wore the traditional mortarboard and graduation gown. James Hixson, superintendent for the Bath School District, signed diplomas.
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The graduates—now in their late sixties—posed for a class portrait. Smiles abounded on the faces of the six women and three men.
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Three days earlier, on Wednesday, May 18—the same day and date as in 1927—there was another ceremony. A bronze plaque, unveiled in Couzens Park, noted the history of the site from its first school building in 1873 to the opening of Bath Consolidated School, Senator Couzens’s donation funding the rebuilding in 1928, and the 1975 school board decision to tear down the outdated building.

The third paragraph of the plaque is simple and direct. “May 18, 1927, a disaster struck this community and the school was demolished by dynamite perpetrated by Andrew P. Kehoe, killing 45 and injuring 58 children and adults.”
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The afternoon was solemn yet uplifting. The school band and community chorus provided music, the local Cub Scout pack raised the American
flag, and a National Guard firing squad shot off a salute after each victim’s name was read aloud; when the 21 gun salute ended, the traditional “Taps” was played. State and local politicians were present, and Superintendent Hixson provided a few words honoring the moment.

Three witnesses of the bombing were also present. Floyd Huggett, the school principal in 1927, and Nina Matson Fair, one of the teachers, were among the guests. Fondly remembered as Miss Matson by her students, Fair unveiled the monument that afternoon. She was asked to say a few words; fearing she might break down, Fair asked her son-in-law to speak on her behalf.
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Also in the audience was Ethel Huyck Saur, Emory Huyck’s widow.
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Memories held firm throughout the decades, and loved ones lost to terror were never far away. After fifty years, a public memorial was finally dedicated on behalf of the dead.

In March 1985, a permanent exhibit was installed at the middle school. Dubbed the Bath School Museum, this facility gives visitors a glimpse of the past with artifacts from the old one-room schoolhouses, mementos from graduating classes, an antique school desk complete with an inkwell holder, and educational tools such as old
Dick and Jane
books.

Naturally, the museum is dominated by the reminders of May 18, 1927. The flag that flew at the school that morning. A clock, hands frozen at the exact time the dynamite went off. An autograph book belonging to one of the victims. A chair picked up and taken home by a frightened kindergartner. Newspaper stories and memoirs of survivors are mounted on the wall. Photographs of the ruined north wing, the bushel baskets of dynamite, the remnants of Kehoe’s truck. A picture of Andrew and Nellie Kehoe, sitting in their living room, looking as content as any farm couple.

In a corner, protected by an acrylic case, is the bronze statue “Girl with a Cat.” A plaque explains its significance.

A large photograph of Superintendent Huyck hangs over the entrance. There is a hint of a smile within his no-nonsense demeanor.

He is a man looking with pride over his school.

Florence Hart checked into the hospital in early January of 1988 for a blood transfusion. Doctors insisted she stay overnight, which didn’t set too well with Florence. She knew she was at the end of her life and was frustrated over her declining health. Most of her friends and so many loved ones were gone. But she was not alone; her children and grandchildren were a great comfort.

Fig. 20. Superintendent Emory E. Huyck.
(Courtesy of the Bath School Museum.)

Still, Florence knew she was missing something. Only death could provide the one thing she really wanted.

Patti Seehase, Florence’s granddaughter, sat at the bedside. The two shared a deep affection; it would be hard for Patti when the inevitable came for her grandmother.

But Florence was ready to go. She was practically bursting with anticipation. “You know, Patti,” she said, “I’m getting so excited to see Robert. I love all of you kids, don’t get me wrong. But I’m so excited to see Robert again I can hardly stand it. I don’t know what the Lord is keeping me here for now.”

A few days later, Florence slipped into a coma. She died six weeks later on February 16, just ten days shy of her ninety-fourth birthday. Florence took with her a deep, abiding faith in God, love of family, and the precious thought that after more than sixty years apart she would reunite with her son.
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Shortly before 9:00 a.m. on April 19, 1995, Timothy McVeigh, a disillusioned Gulf War veteran parked his rented truck in front of the Alfred P. Murrah Federal Building in Oklahoma City. The vehicle was loaded with nearly five thousand pounds of the agricultural fertilizer ammonium nitrate mixed with nitromethane, a highly explosive fuel used in drag racers and rockets. McVeigh calmly ignited a timed fuse inside the truck, then quickly exited the area.

At 9:02 a.m., McVeigh’s crude bomb went off. It ripped open the front of the Murrah Building, ultimately killing 168 people and injuring about 850 others. Nineteen of the dead were children, killed in the day care center located on the ground floor of the facility. It took hours to save survivors caught in the debris.

As she watched the story unfold on television, Ava Sweet Nelson, now living in Florida, flashed back to another spring day when she was trapped in rubble for hours, screaming and praying for rescuers.

She cried all that day for the victims. Ava knew exactly how they felt.
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Television news, searching for meaning and looking for answers, descended on Bath. In the wake of Oklahoma City, the story of Andrew Kehoe and the Bath Consolidated School was retold to a nation that had long forgotten about the bombing.

The NBC program
Dateline
titled its piece “Blood Bath.”

In another dedication ceremony, held on May 18, 1992, the sixty-fifth anniversary of the bombing, Couzens Park was officially dedicated as a Michigan Historic Site with a marker installed detailing the location’s significance.

For the seventy-fifth commemoration in 2002, the Bath Area Jaycees laid out a brick walkway encircling the cupola. Each victim’s name was memorialized within the path. A boulder, donated by Bath Township, was also installed that day. The giant stone was outfitted with a plaque listing most of those killed in the bombing. Two names were omitted: Andrew and Nellie Kehoe.
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Jennie Hanson, who taught art at Bath Middle School in 1998, was told her eighth-grade students were known troublemakers. It was no exaggeration. She watched helplessly as kids picked fights or split into cliques.

There had to be something to unite the kids. Hanson was determined
to bring the disruptive bunch together as one, using self-expression as the conduit.

She found inspiration in the past, conceiving a new sculpture for the Bath School Museum. Her students would create the piece, a memorial to their 1927 peers.

Hanson sketched her idea, a willow tree with ceramic tiles on its branches to represent the bombing victims. Above her drawing, she drafted an artistic statement.

A tree shape symbolic of growth and life. A willow to show sorrow for those who died or were injured. Bright tiles for hope. The slight movement of the tiles in a breeze shows life.

The eighth graders each picked a name, a life to portray in clay and glaze. They talked to relatives and friends, looked at Monty Ellsworth’s book, and read other accounts of the tragedy, then began to work. Each tile reflected something important about the person it symbolized.

The “Tree of Life” sculpture transformed the class. Fights were replaced with compassion. When Hanson read Hazel Weatherby’s story to her students, she found herself choked with emotion. The children nestled in Weatherby’s arms could easily be any of the kids in her classroom. Hanson could not hold back her tears.

The sculpture brought Hanson and her students closer to each other. A group of kids, written off as troublemakers, were united through their peers of 1927.